


Trial by Water

by deepandlovelydark, Tanista



Series: That Deep Romantic Chasm, or Journey to the Center of the Neath [10]
Category: Fallen London | Echo Bazaar, MacGyver (TV 1985), Sunless Sea
Genre: Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Devils, Gen, Soul Trade, general Neathy weirdness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-08
Updated: 2017-11-08
Packaged: 2019-01-31 01:33:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12665544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deepandlovelydark/pseuds/deepandlovelydark, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tanista/pseuds/Tanista
Summary: A bit of doggerel, chalked on the window of the local cheesemonger's: "Beginner's luck: an accident between ignorance and enervation.""Sounds about right," the Unrepentant Smuggler says."That's silly," the Innocent Spy argues. "What I figure is, you make your own luck."The Sensible Bookworm shakes her head at both of them. "Forget luck. I'd rather trust to good planning any day."Well. Here comes any day.





	Trial by Water

**Author's Note:**

> Copyright: Fallen London is © 2015 and ™ Failbetter Games Limited: www.fallenlondon.com. This is an unofficial fan work.  
> MacGyver is copyright either Paramount or Lee David Zlotoff, depending.

"Letter call!" Toby cries.

"Punctual as always," the Sensible Bookworm observes. "How d'you always get to the door before I do?"

"I like to see the postman's expression at seeing a rat collecting the packages, instead of being one," the Tinkerer explains. "Nothing for you, princess. But there's a cat box for the Pink-Painted Cat, and a few letters for the Spy."

The Bookworm taps the heavy box, with a cautious touch. "Why is a cat ordering cat boxes?"

"I fear to think." He trots towards the study, reaching it just as the door opens.

"Hey, everyone," the Innocent Spy says, kneeling down to collect the offered envelopes. "Anything going on?"

"I'm sort of at loose ends," the Bookworm says. "Finished my symphony early, so I'm free for the afternoon."

"Grinding symphonies. I still don't know how anyone does that." He sorts rapidly through the mail, setting aside warning notes for later perusal.

"It's a persuasive sort of action, you watchful folk wouldn't understand," she teases. "No, but seeing as the definition of symphony is basically anything that isn't a song, that gives me a lot of leeway. And I can borrow inspiration from everything that hasn't been written yet."

"I have the awful feeling we're circling around a 'Back to the Future' joke," the Spy says. "Never understood why they put the teenager in that. Or why they couldn't have made a film set in the '50s actually about the '50s, instead of some wacky fantasy Hollywood version." He looks over at Toby a little apologetically. "Sorry. This isn't going to make much sense to you, is it?"

"Not a whit. But then, you never quibble when the cats and I are thrashing out the best jokes from the post-Fall Charivari."

"Unc, it was a Hollywood film in the first place," the Bookworm points out. "Anyway, I remember you liking it when we went."

"I liked watching Christopher Lloyd play a mad scientist, which isn't quite the same thing - the third movie was more fun, I thought."

She laughs. "Only because it was set in the Old West, most of the time. No wonder you like it here so much, since we're back in your favorite time period. Which happens to coincide with the Victorian era."

He chuckles. "Yeah, you're right. Wish I could take you up to the Surface through the Canal sometime to take a look but apparently we'll both need some Hesperidean Cider first, and that costs a whole lot of echoes...Oh, no."

"Good news?"

"Not really. My former captain has invited us for dinner tonight."

"Oh, brilliant!" She's been wanting to meet with his old shipmates for absolute ages (they did look after her uncle for a whole year), but the Spy's kept putting it off with one excuse or another. "Is everyone going to come?"

"Apparently. Which means the Student will probably bring along that Antiquarian Revenuer he's been seeing, and I've been trying to avoid her ever since she caught me trying to smuggle in some top-secret reports. Who knows who the Crewmember will show up with. And then we have an irrigo addict trying to arrange a dinner-party. I really think we'd better decline this time."

"But you have to introduce me to them some time," the Sensible One observes. "C'mon, what's the real problem? Without excuses?"

He sighs. "I feel guilty every time I think about it. As soon as I'd figured out that I really was stuck in 1895, I was all 'oh well, that's it, it'll be another hundred years before I see my niece again.' We spent a year separated just because I wasn't trying hard enough."

"You had a job to do," Becky says reasonably, "And I'm not fourteen any more, I've been an adult for a few years now, remember? College degree on the wall at home and everything? We always knew that Pete might have to send you on a long-term assignment someday."

"Yeah, but not for this long."

She smiles. "Well, if that's what's bothering you, the least you can do is introduce me to everyone who was around while you were pretending to be a carefree bachelor."

"If you're hoping for some cheap blackmail material, you aren't going to hear about it from them," the Innocent Spy says dryly. "You already know about the Seeking. I got arrested for some nonviolent protesting, but I was doing that back on the Surface, and I really can't think of anything else. How d'you think I got saddled with my use-name?"

The Sensible Bookworm can't resist playing her ace. "What about the Philanthropist in Port Carnelian? She told me a story or two herself, you know."

Cute thing about Neath-residents: what with the lack of sun and everything, it's a lot easier to tell when people are blushing.

*****************

The dinner itself is pretty stuffy; everyone's on their best behaviour and determinedly polite. The two University types, observing the conversation to be lagging, are taking the opportunity to mutually reminisce about their undergraduate days. It's boring. Even when they're quarreling over the incident when a professor was fired before they'd even opened their department, it's boring.

At least the introductions were interesting. The Captain. The Unsettling Student. The Anonymous Crewmember. The Cynical Herald. When she was presented ("This is my niece, the Sensible Bookworm.") their reactions ranged from pleased to curious to slightly put out ("You never mentioned family. Though come to think of it, did I mention mine? Harrumph.") to...well, cynical. ("Sensible, eh? Would you be the smarter one in the family?")

Yet they can't be boring all the time, she thinks. The zailor here, with an ambiguous tattoo and an apparent terror of the forks, they must have a few stories. Or the heraldess sitting at the end of the table, drinking airag like wine and apparently ignoring the conversation, until she finds an opportunity to slip in a sarcastic bon mot; would she be more interesting under any other circumstances? Doubtless.

The Bookworm turns her attention back to her supposed dinner partner. Shy-looking boy about her own age, in round glasses, a knitted cardigan, and an expression of perpetual bemusement. He's managed to go all evening without saying a single word, even when they were being introduced.

"Hi, uh...actually, I've forgotten your name. Sorry, what was it again?"

"The Welsh Firebreather!" the Captain calls heartily (he at least has been enjoying himself, especially when it came to carving the roast). "Takes after his father one way and his mother the other."

"Grandfather," the boy says, contriving to look even more embarrassed, "I told you about this. It's the Welsh Chorister now, I've been going by that for ages."

"Oh, you sing?" the Bookworm says eagerly. "I do, sometimes. Mostly just for fun, unless I'm working on a song or something."

"It's sort of that way in my case. I only ever sing in groups, professionally I mean. You're one of the court songwriters?"

"I've done a couple. Though you probably haven't heard of them - does _Night on the Whitefoam River_ sound familiar?"

"So here's another thing, there'll be a reckoning, some night on the Whitefoam River!" the Chorister sings.

Sings it properly, too. Not with rubbishy heart-melting sadness, that makes her wince whenever she hears the tune in the street these days (the Blasé Compiler had warned her that the hints of Seeking would give people all the wrong ideas about how to sing it, and he'd been right). Trying to catch a little of London's magic. Turning the feel and smell and sound of a city ringed by paradox, beset by darkness and yet the liveliest haven in the world, into a few pale notes and words.

"It's actually part of a story cycle I've been working on," she confesses. "The adventures of a Brave Princess and her Clever Knight."

She catches a smile and wink from her uncle. Fond memories of a certain imaginary realm from her childhood were the inspiration.

The Chorister's rather nicer-looking when he's smiling. "I bought a copy of the sheet music the day I heard it. That gorgeous shift at the end, when the Grey One's fighting her and she brings out the cloak she's been weaving the whole time-"

Everyone's staring at him now. He stops abruptly.

"That was pretty good," the Spy says. "I haven't heard anyone get that quite right since she gave up singing it."

"Chorister indeed," the Herald agrees. "A preferable talent to firebreathing for a dinner party, I should say."

"I dunno. Might liven things up a bit," the Crewmember points out. "Shall I set something on fire so we can see you eat it?"

"Thank you very much," the Chorister says, politely. "But I think I'd prefer the sweet."

That, finally, breaks the ice. They all laugh (even the Student, once the Revenuer nudges him), and the conversation flows more easily after that.

*****************

"Stay close to the house," the Innocent calls, as she and the Chorister meander outside. The older folks are decamping to the library for conversation and brandy, or a cup of solacefruit cordial in one case. Silly of them. Today's far too nice to spend indoors; there's even a sharp sea breeze, blowing from who knows where.

"We will!" The ruler used to draw up the post-'68 boundaries between the Bazaar and the Forbidden Quarter had a kink in it; technically speaking, the Captain's house is on the wrong side of the border. Not that any devils seem to be about at the moment, but the Bookworm's keeping an eye out anyway.

"The Spy's ever so protective, isn't he?" the Chorister comments. "Not at all like my own father."

"Uncle, actually. Don't worry about it," she says, before he has time to apologise. (Londoners, she's found, are great lovers of apologies: sometimes even non-sarcastic ones). "It's kind of an understandable mistake."

She gives him a quick run-down of her cover story, as hashed out with the Spy beforehand: family died in a tragic accident and he became her guardian, they've lived together for years before his unexpected assignment, he was later presumed dead but she went in search for him with the help of a friend. It's deliberately abbreviated but basically truthful. California's so far away from the Neath, it can cover all but the most egregious temporal slip-ups as silly Surfacer error.

(Unless they ever run into a genuine 1890s Californian visiting down here, but they'll cross that bridge when they get there.)

"And how about you? The Captain's your grandfather- was that on your mother's side, or your father's?"

"Mother's. His ship was in for repairs at the Fall, so luckily they were together when it happened. Sometimes he tells me stories, about those first mad days, and people wondering at the jellied things in the streets and everything I grew up taking for granted. And then there was- well, a sort of accident, and mother died when I was fourteen. Permanently, I mean."

"I know what that's like," the Bookworm murmurs. Impulsively, she takes his hand and gives it a comforting squeeze.

Wait, is that against Victorian decorum? Around here it's hard to remember what's proper, what's improper, and what's a Rubbery Man who must be politely burbled at.

At least in this case she seems to have gotten away with it. The Chorister goes a little pink, but doesn't let go.

"Grandfather offered to take me aboard his ship, then - I think he was hoping that I'd follow in his footsteps - but I hate water like a cat, always have."

"Some cats like water."

"Well, like - like a cat that doesn't like water? Oh dear," the Chorister splutters.

This time it's her turn to apologise. He has such a droll look sometimes. She finds it oddly appealing.

"So I said I'd stay with father, but that didn't go very well either. He missed her. And he always did enjoy the honey too much...ended up as a sort of honorary Urchin for a few years. That's where I learned the firebreathing." He grins, in a self-deprecating sort of way. "Correspondence trickery. Easier than it looks."

"Back in California my uncle and I would go to carnivals and watch the firebreathing acts on the sideshow. I always wondered how they could do that without burning the inside of their mouths."

"Ah. Perhaps I should seek employment with Mrs. Plenty, then? I'd certainly earn more echoes that way. Take notes from Mr. Adoniform as to presentation, even."

"Oh, I don't think you need any help in that regard."

He pauses and stares at her, eyebrows raised. She feels her own cheeks flushing. That definitely crossed the line of Victorian propriety.

"You certainly have an interesting habit of speaking your mind." He cocks his head. "California must be a very strange place."

"You have no idea. I'm so sorry. Forgive my candor, please."

"There's nothing to forgive. I rather like it, actually." A shy smile curves his lips and mischief twinkles within his (rather lovely) eyes. "You're quite unlike anyone I've ever met."

The flush remains as she murmurs a thank-you. He reminds her of Daniel, a fellow academic whom she once met at a linguistics conference in Seattle a few years ago. They'd gone out a few times, then he left to give a paper in Denver; she hadn't heard from him since.

 _I wouldn't mind having a boyfriend,_ she thinks. _Yet my relationships always end before they even have the chance to become anything more. It's like Uncle Mac's issues with commitment, only in reverse somehow._

She wonders if her luck will ever change.

Their perambulation eventually returns them back to the Captain's house, just as the Spy and his former shipmates are stepping outside, exchanging farewells.

The Chorister turns to her. "Would you mind awfully if I said I'd like to see you again sometime?"

"Not at all."

He does have a really nice smile. Plus he's kinda cute.

*****************

After that the Bookworm and Chorister find themselves together everywhere in London. They visit bookshops, both in Elderwick and Blackfinger Street. Attend dinners hosted by his old chums from Benthic, where they discuss music and politics until the wee hours. Embark on perfectly respectible strolls in Tyrant's Gardens.

It's almost like the two weeks she spent with Jack's protégé, the Charming Thief. But better. Where that affair had an almost pro forma quality about it- practically a requirement in becoming posies, for Stone's sake- this is more spontaneous. Even enjoyable.

The Chorister's really fun to be around. Underneath the quiet, shy exterior lurks a wry sense of humor similar to hers, laced with warmth, kindness, intelligence and compassion. Much like Uncle Mac, in some ways.

He has the same depth of feeling regarding certain topics, as well. In his case it's the soul trade.

One day their excursions take them past the Brass Embassy. "Even in California there are stories of people selling their souls to Hell," the Bookworm comments as a Stately-Horned Devil tips his fedora at them as he steps out of the main entrance. "But hardly any mention of what happens to them afterwards. The souls, I mean."

"I expect they're traded, same as here," the Chorister replies. "For money, goods and services. Whatever a person needs right at that very moment. Pity their victims are rendered too soulless to care about what happens afterwards."

"Speaking from past experience?"

His expression tightens. "I've friends who traded their souls in college for forbidden knowledge, to help with exams. Didn't do them much good, however; after that they lost all will to complete their studies and gradually succumbed to the temptations of prisoner's honey and Strangling Willow Absinthe. One of them was my best mate, and another a girl I'd known since I was a lad. They were too soulless to pay attention when the latest Jack-of-Smiles came calling on them in Spite one day, bringing permanent death."

Oh, my. Sorry just doesn't seem to cover this kind of news, really. She offers a sympathetic smile then- after a covert glance around to make sure no one's noticing- reaches for his hand and squeezes.

Just like before he doesn't let go. Even offers her a small, sad smile and squeeze in return.

****************

"You're in a hurry to eat," the Spy notes one evening during dinner. "I was hoping we'd have a game of chess later."

"Sorry, I can't. The Welsh Chorister and I are going to a performance at Mahogany Hall tonight. The Sardonic Singer is making a rare appearance and I don't want to be late."

"You've been seeing an awful lot of him lately. Something going on between you two I should know about?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, do I need to start acting parental yet? Don't think I've forgotten about what Jack talked you into while I was at the Festival on Mutton Island. You sure it's not more serious?"

The Bookworm rolls her eyes. "No Unc, it's nothing like that. We're just friends seeing the sights together. That's all."

He smirks. "If you say so, Beck."

****************

"I'm off to rehearsal at St. Aegidius', Grandfather," the Welsh Chorister says, pulling on his overcoat. "Shall I pick up something special for tea whilst I'm out?"

The Captain wanders into the hallway from his Voluminous Library, books in hand. "No need to bother, dear boy. I've a box or two of Murgatroyd's best fungal biscuits and a rat cutlet laid aside in the larder. A night of reading's in store for me. I'll be perfectly fine. Not seeing your young lady tonight, then?"

He feels the familiar flush warm his cheeks. Dash his sensitive nature sometimes. "Grandfather, for the last time the Sensible Bookworm's not my 'young lady.' We're simply friends who enjoy each other's company of an evening."

"Is that so? My goodness, must have forgotten. Well, do pass on my greetings to your young lady next time you see her, then."

"Grandfather--!"

"Toodle-loo, dear boy. Mind you come straight home tonight; the devils are afoot."

***************

"So your grandfather thinks we're an item, huh?"

The Chorister pauses during his perusal of the latest grafitti along Ladybones Road; there are some very interesting marks this time that remind him of the more obscure Correspondence sigils. "A what? Some of your California idioms are quite perplexing."

"An item. Which kinda means a couple. Funnily enough, my uncle said the same thing." The Bookworm flushes and looks down, the toe of her boot idly kicking at a loose cobblestone. "I wonder if they're right. I mean, I really like being with you and we have a lot in common, but if for some reason you don't feel the same way I understand--"

"No! I mean..." A nervous swallow. "I do like being with you. Quite a bit, actually. It's just that, well, I've never had a serious relationship before. With anyone."

It surprises himself that he feels comfortable admitting something so personal to her. Perhaps some of her penchant for honesty is rubbing off on him.

He realizes he rather likes it.

"Me neither, really." she confesses. "I've had a few boyfriends, but nothing really serious. My uncle hasn't had the best luck with romance himself, so maybe I take after him that way."

"At least you have each other. Similar to me and Grandfather."

She sighs. "Yeah, we're pretty close. I love him very much but occasionally I wonder if there's someone else out there for me, you know?"

This time he's the one to reach for her hand and lightly squeeze it, without even caring who notices.

"I've no doubt there's a person in your life who already sees how very remarkable you are."

The Bookworm shyly looks up at him. "Oh, I bet you say that to everyone you know."

"Hardly ever. I'm quite particular as to whom I give compliments to."

She blushes quite endearingly, the Chorister thinks. And she really has the most charming smile.

**************

A notice posted a week later, in various locations around the city:

_Citizens of London are welcome to the Semiannual Observance of one of Hell's oldest traditions, taking place in the Forgotten Quarter Sunday next:_

_THE GRAND HUNT._

_Don't miss this chance to watch our BRAVEST and most INTREPID devils in action alongside their FAITHFUL hellhounds, in search of the most BRILLIANT and INTRIGUING souls. (Could YOURS be among them?)_

_Be sure to stop by Dante's Grill afterwards for a complementary tasting of Amanita Sherry, along with our INFORMATIVE and ILLUMINATING lecture on the many benefits of Soullessness._

_A Message from Your Friends at the Brass Embassy._

**Author's Note:**

> The Bookworm's Romantic Notion with the Charming Thief occurs in Chapter 5 of deepandlovelydark's "Lana."
> 
> Becky's been dreaming about the Whitefoam River for quite a few years now, as chronicled in Tanista's tale "The Secret Garden."


End file.
